


A Tamed Tiger

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Bisexual Character, Don't copy to another site, Introspection, Love, M/M, Oriented Aroace, POV Second Person, Referenced Victorian homophobia, aroace character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Moran thinks upon his relationship with the Professor
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	A Tamed Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> An experiment in writing in the second person. I don't think I've ever written in the second person before and have never really even liked it much but I suddenly got hit with an overwhelming urge to write something in the second person from Moran's POV.

Sometimes you wonder how it came to be like this – oh not _this_ , precisely; fucking _,_ you understand, even if before you were usually the one on top, regardless of the sex of the other party. The sexual act is relatively simple, but this... this is not. Although, true, when you think about it further sometimes still you are left wondering why he even wants to do _this_. For a time you thought the man to be entirely sexless, celibate due to disinterest, and that was not really so far from the truth. Even now the Professor still does not desire you in the same way you desire him and for a time you had become resigned (well, almost) to the idea that there might never be anything truly deep and meaningful between the two of you, nor even anything simply _physical_.

But then, despite the differences between you, he bedded you, not only once but repeatedly, and the more time you spent together the closer you became and now you are his entirely, his permanent intimate companion as well as his right hand man. There are times then, often late at night, or in the afterglow of your physical exertions together, when you lie beside him or sometimes with him curled around you, as you listen to his soft rhythmic breathing and feel his warm weight covering you, when you think to question _how did this happen_? You have a horror of being trapped, literally and rather more metaphorically, and you used to mock the idea of committing to someone, of getting married and settling down, with a wife, children, living a boring existence for the remainder of your life. A wife is out of the question now, children too, but you are settled down, certainly. In many regards your life now could almost be considered... _safe_. You're still not sure if younger you would be amused or appalled by this. Maybe he would be a little surprised that you allow the Professor to pin you down like _this_ , fucking you roughly, his arm across your chest as he thrusts into you. Or maybe not. Even as a boy you were surprisingly perverse.

Although in truth of course the Professor is still a very dangerous man. Even you would not be immune to his wrath should you betray him, you suppose. But then you wouldn't betray him, it is as simple as that. The thought of doing so has never crossed your mind, truly. So perhaps he is not so dangerous to you, but still he is a man capable of arranging murder, and even of murdering someone himself should the need arise. And yet you sleep beside him night after night, and you put your back to him when he wishes it so, and you put yourself in his hands time and time again, and... you trust him. You have never trusted anyone before, not to this degree.

Which is why of course you do allow him to do _this_ to you, taking you roughly, his hand on your prick, stroking you almost in time with his thrusts. Before you were always too wary to let most people take you from behind. The Professor is not always so rough as this of course, and he does not always take you this way. He can be gentle, tender even, and sometimes he has you use your mouth on him, or sometimes he satisfies himself between your thighs. Occasionally he has even allowed you to take him, though you have never been as rough with him as he can be with you. A little variety is good, great, in fact, and you don't really know any more what you like best. Actually that's a lie. You like it best when he has you on your back, so that you are face to face with him while his weight is pinning you down and his cock is filling you up. You never liked it like that before either, before him – not the penetration itself, you didn't mind that, but being face to face with someone, sharing that particular brand of intimacy with them... it was too much to bear.

With the Professor though... you crave things from him you would never have dreamed of wanting with anyone else. Not only the more _carnal_ things, but sharing a bed with him, or curling up in his arms, or sitting on the drawing room floor, your rifle spread out on sheets of old newspaper as you clean it, while the Professor sits upon the sofa beside you reading the newest edition of the paper, and you are practically pressed against his leg. You like being close to him, protecting him and feeling protected by him in turn.

You also crave his praise and approval, as well as his affection. You still cannot quite keep your cheeks from flushing when he congratulates you on a task well done, or when he says to you, “Good boy.” You think occasionally you _should_ perhaps be irritated, when he addresses you in the same manner many might address a dog, but you only feel pleased. The Professor knows exactly what makes you tick now and don't you just love that? That he knows he can practically make you melt by saying softly, “Well done, pet”, or whispering to you, “My dear Sebastian.” Even that is somewhat novel, being called by your first name. Few since your mother have used it, not even your father – to use your given name would involve actually acknowledging your existence after all. But the Professor shows no reticence about calling you Sebastian in private moments, and it is always Sebastian, never _Seb_ or some other diminutive. Hell will likely freeze over before you ever hear James Moriarty refer to you as _Sebby_.

In return sometimes, usually in the most intimate moments, you call him _James_. Or at least you cry or gasp it out, and at times it is probably a little hard to make out. He is never _Jim_ or _Jimmy_ , which would feel insulting, nor is he ever _Moriarty_ to you, which feels far too impersonal. Often he is _sir_ , which he has told you you need not call him, but you like it that way (unlike dear old pater, the Professor has actually earned the right to be addressed so from you). And often you call him _Professor_ , which he will always be to you, no matter what the status of his legitimate career is. Besides, you know that in those strange puppet shows you never really understood the appeal of, the Punch and Judy shows, that the puppets' operator is known as a _professor_ ; the title for him then seems particularly fitting.

It is a strange situation, no doubt. You entered into the Professor's life and employment believing that you would simply carry out a few tasks for him. You had your suspicions even then about why he wanted you exactly, but you still had no clue as to the depths to which he would take you, into the criminal underworld that exists below London proper. Now you will obey him almost regardless of what the instruction is; you will suck his prick as willingly as you will kill a man for him – not mindlessly, not with fawning obedience, but always with unwavering loyalty. The Professor does not want some vacuous lackey, incapable of ever thinking for himself, and while he would not be fond of you querying every one of his orders, he clearly relishes it when you do show your initiative by questioning his instructions, or even when you manage to figure out a better solution to one of his problems occasionally. And even the Professor has standards, though perhaps his exist for more practical rather than emotional reasons. But he has never bade you harm a child nor even an animal, to make a point to anyone. You were a hunter; you have killed animals to eat, and you have killed dangerous predators too in your past life, and you have not been overly concerned about killing various men, but even you balk at the idea of torturing any animal, or killing someone's pet to make a point, or hurting a child in any way. But the Professor never asks you to do these things, so there has never been any real point of conflict between the two of you.

When it comes to animals though he does seem to have a strange soft spot himself for certain creatures even you yourself cannot abide (and you do not tell him, how much you mistrust pigeons, with their beady eyes and flapping wings, but he knows; of course he knows). And he regards your own fondness for horses and dogs with an indulgent smile, like a fond parent. You thought you had managed to keep it a secret, sneaking sugar lumps from the breakfast table to feed to his carriage horses, but he knew about that too. Now you do it openly, taking sugar for the big black animals to lip from your hand with a delicacy that may surprise many, and the Professor watches you, still with a smile.

Sometimes you walk to the park with him, often with his arm linked through yours and him with a paper bag filled with bird seed in his pocket, and he delights in scattering the seeds about for the pigeons to peck at. You usually keep your distance when he does this, but you can never bring yourself to go too far away or to refuse even to go with him at all. It's one of those queer domestic rituals you never would have dreamed you would be participating in even only a few years back.

It was someone in the park who set him off today, in a fit of what some might think is jealousy, though you know it is not quite so simple as that. It wasn't that you really looking, it was just that a rather attractive young man happened to walk past you as you were waiting for the Professor to finish feeding his wretched pigeons, and you glanced at each other perhaps for a bit too long than is deemed appropriate. That was all though. It's not as if you arranged to meet up later or you got hard from looking or anything.

“I saw the way you eyed that man,” the Professor says later, over dinner, and you look up from your roast beef, momentarily perplexed.

“Sir?”

“In the park.”

“Oh.” You don't bother denying finding the man pleasing to the eye. The Professor does know that it goes no deeper than you finding a passing acquaintance handsome, and _you_ know that this is only a game really, that while the emotions stirred within him in response to seeing you admiring someone else are genuine, his reaction now is... oddly staged. He plays at being angrier and far more controlling than he truly is, because you both love it that way sometimes.

It is why you are now being aggressively fucked into the mattress, him behind you, gripping you roughly, hard enough to leave marks on your hips, but you don't care about that. You need this, just the same as you need his tenderness and words of praise. You go along with his games because it amuses you just as much as it amuses him, to have him behave with possessiveness towards you. You know it is only in play, and it makes you feel wanted, needed, safe. The Professor can be jealous, yes, and surprisingly insecure even – for all his self-confidence and domineering nature even he is aware that you are younger than he is, fitter than he is and likely broadly considered to be more handsome than he is. But he also seems oddly proud that for all the admiring glances you receive from others, he alone is the one who goes home with you, and who beds you. He knows your past when it comes to those you have lain with, at least fairly well, but he does not judge you for it – you believe this completely. If he accuses you occasionally of looking at someone else a bit too intently, or of wanting to lie with them even, it is simply a game.

You're surprised however when he stops well before he's got close to climaxing, drawing out of you entirely, and you glance back at him, concerned, wondering if his aversion to physical intimacy with most people has managed to somehow extend to include you after all. The expression on his face however puts an end to that idea. He's smiling at you, and you understand then; that he simply wants to change the position.

He pushes you over onto your back, so you are propped up against the pillows. You draw your legs up, wrap them around him, pulling him closer, between your thighs – some might call him the active partner in this scenario, and you the passive one, but you don't much hold with that idea – and for that he gives you the lightest of slaps across your jaw.

“Don't be presumptuous, Sebastian,” he chides, and you laugh. You know he wants you submissive, not docile, and he has never hit you, not really – he has caned you and spanked you during some of your games, but that's different. He leans in then, tilting his head slightly to kiss you on the lips, and you groan into his mouth as he gives your prick a quick stroke before he eases inside you again.

You clutch onto him, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He's still wearing his shirt, as he often does, but you never mind that much. With some people you would think it's self-consciousness about their body perhaps, but with the Professor you think it simply gives him the illusion of still being in complete control during an act which makes him feel very vulnerable. The Professor does have a nice body though – you are very fond of it, even though it is hardly the physique of some Greek god, and you wouldn't mind if he took his shirt off more often when you're together like this. But it isn't as if you've never seen him naked at other times. Actually he can be oddly shameless about his nakedness at other times, seeming to delight in how much you stare sometimes.

At least he's taken off his trousers and drawers though, so when he thrusts into you you can feel his bare skin against your backside and the backs of your thighs, and when you look down you can just see his thick cock disappearing into you, joining the pair of you together in this most obscene and thoroughly illegal fashion.

Sometimes that thought gives you a pang of sadness – that the narrow-minded, petty, interfering human sheep; the god-fearing and those who believe all the guff about the superiority of the British and who probably frig themselves to pictures of old Queen Vicky; the stiff upper lip and rod up the arse brigade – think your feelings for each other are sinful; that they should be deemed criminal just the same as murder and theft and blackmail and all those other truly sordid crimes. Sometimes though the thought that these acts are illegal seems to give them an extra element of excitement. The thought that simply by taking a rod of a different kind in your arse you are giving the middle finger to the establishment amuses you. Tonight is one of those nights, and you can't help yourself from laughing at this notion, and the Professor, looking down at you, smiles too. Is he having the same thoughts, or can the man actually just read your mind? Nothing would surprise you about him these days.

When he comes he presses tightly against you, trapping your own cock between your bodies momentarily, as he bites down on your shoulder, suppressing his groan of pleasure as he spills inside you. You last only a few seconds longer, spending as he puts his hand to your cock and strokes you, before he practically collapses on top of you.

You lie there for a while, feeling your heart racing, breathing hard, with his weight on top of you, his head against the crook of your neck. You put your arms around him lightly, not quite embracing him, but touching him. The room smells of sex and perspiration and you feel wetness on your belly and beneath you too that you know will soon dry and become unpleasant. The room needs to be aired and you both need to clean yourselves up, and you are fully aware that within a few minutes if you don't make a move anyway then he will all but chase you out of bed to get washed. But for those few minutes, while both of your heartbeats and breathing rates return to normal, you are content to lie tangled up in each other.

“James,” you say softly, and you run your fingers lightly through his hair (auburn, turning to grey in places; you suppose you did always have a thing for redheads), and he looks at you with those eyes that are blue, like yours, but definitely with more grey in them, and he appears contented. You almost want to say more, but dare not. Nothing more really needs to be said anyway.

So how _did_ it come to be like this? The surge of an emotion you feel when you look at him – an emotion you are still afraid to put a name to, lest that spoil it somehow – is your answer. He is not merely your master, your employer, but also your dearest friend, your companion, your lover, your home, your world. You never knew before that you were so sentimental, but then before you couldn't afford to be so, and he has changed everything. The Professor, the puppet-master, has caught you and he has installed you in his house and in his bed and put you to work for him and you are aware that you may never leave his employment, for you know far too much for him to allow you to get away from him. Some might see this as a trap, a cage – a very lovely gilded cage perhaps, but still a cage. And yet, you cannot view it that way. Before him you felt trapped, constrained, always bound by rules and regulations and expected to abide by the whims and caprices of those who cared about you not at all. He though... cares. Perhaps he does not care for you in the same manner as you do for him, but he cares. You don't feel quite fully domesticated, not yet, but the Professor has certainly managed to tame you, and you... you couldn't be happier about this.


End file.
